


Headfirst Slide

by one_flying_ace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Body Image, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Genderbending, Genderfuck, M/M, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_flying_ace/pseuds/one_flying_ace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles considers changing the subject, or just turning and getting into the Jeep, but Scott's got his arms folded and a stubborn expression under the frown. He sighs, pulling Scott's hoodie tighter around him. "I'm fine. I've got a cunt and boobs and sometimes I forget I have to pee sitting down, but I'm fine."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headfirst Slide

**Author's Note:**

> Checked over but unbetaed; any spelling or grammer nitpicks are gratefully received.

Stiles wakes up to a noise like firecrackers, blinking as a scatter of red sparks flies overhead. A beat passes before his brain catches up with his body, registering the sparks as magic and the things scratching at the back of his neck as dry leaves.

He flinches as more sparks fly overhead and rolls over, and fuck, that's a new and weird hurt. He can see Scott now, and Lydia, fighting hard against- whatever the fuck those things are. Fairies? Pixies? Whatever.

Stiles pushes himself off the ground, and yep, those were boobs he was crushing.

"Scott!" He yells, voice cracking, and immediately has to dive back down to the forest floor, red sparks shooting his way. Lydia's hands glow blue and her own set of sparks stops them in mid-flight, one of the pixie-things screeching its anger at her; Scott takes advantage and tackles it from the side, claws ripping at its throat, sickly looking blood spraying out over the leaves.

"Stay down," he yells back, and leaps to attack the second, Lydia already fighting a third, sparks flying around them like a deadly fireworks show. Stiles scrambles backwards until he's behind a large tree, hunkering down to keep one eye on things. His head hurts, a painful lump already rising over his left ear, but that's not what's worrying. Stiles pats his front again, just to make sure.

Yep. Apparently he's a woman now.

\-------------------- **  
**

Eventually Scott rips out the throat of the last pixie-thing, and Stiles crawls out from behind the tree, stumbling. His balance is way off, and it's not just the post-fight adrenaline rush wearing off; he feels disconnected from his body, struggling to make it move how he wants to like he hasn't done since his last growth spurt. Lydia frowns, the last of the magic fading from her hands.

"Stiles? Are you okay?"

"Dude," Scott says, grabbing Stiles' arm, "you look terrible." His fingers move over Stiles' head, gently finding the painful lump there. Stiles leans into the touches, still taking deep, calming breaths like he's been told to, fighting off the welling panic.

"I'm a girl," he blurts, and that's it, hearing it said in a register higher than he normally has, it's out. "I'm a girl, I've got boobs, look, they're real and attached to me and oh my god I've probably got a vagina, I mean, I haven't checked, but my dick's gone, and I-" Lydia slaps a hand over his mouth.

"Did you get hit by the magic?"

"Uh." The truth is, Stiles doesn't remember. There was running, and fighting, and then he woke up. That happens more than he'd like these days. Lydia rolls her eyes. "Hey, we're not all Xena."

"You kinda are now," Scott says. Stiles tries to hit him and almost overbalances, glares at Scott when he laughs. "Dude, sorry. But you've got boobs!"

"Not my fault!" Stiles yelps.

"We'll figure it out," Lydia says, in what for her passes as a soothing voice.

**\--------------------**

Staring into the mirror that first night, still covered in dirt and pixie blood from helping drag the bodies into a pile so Lydia could set them on fire, Stiles catalogues the changes to his face. Chin more rounded, cheekbones the same, skin softer, not even a hint of stubble, no Adam's apple. The person looking back both is and isn't him.

He pulls a face, and watches the woman in the mirror copy him. She copies him when he brushes his teeth, and washes the blood off his face. She copies him when he scrubs his hand through his hair, and the look of panic on her face matches how he feels inside.

"Stiles?"

"I'm fine," he calls back, and has never been so glad that Scott is willing to take that white lie at face value. His heart rate has calmed down now, but even he can hear the shake in his voice. "I'm starving. Want pizza?" He asks, coming out of the bathroom. Scott is lurking outside, not even pretending he was just coming up the stairs.

"I already ordered," Scott says, and Stiles loves him, truly.

"I love you, man," he says, because Scott's not a mind reader (not yet, anyway, who knows what’s gonna happen next week), and it needs to be said sometimes.

Scott slings an arm over his shoulders and that's weird, because fuck, Scott's taller than him by a good two inches now. "So, boobs-"

"Shut up."

\--------------------

Figuring it out, as far as Stiles can tell, means lots of old books and freaking out every morning. Apparently pixie magic isn't all that well documented, and all the references they can find start with a warning about how dangerous it is for humans to try and use it. Lydia's magic is cobbled together from old Latin incantations, esoteric eastern charms, and some folklore she uses on a wing and a prayer. Stiles suspects the only reason any of it works is because she's so determined it will, but nothing they can find seems remotely safe to try.

Two weeks of old books and fruitless internet searches, and Stiles has just about worked out how to make his body move how he wants it to. Figuring out what to do about the boobs was easy; Scott had given him a couple of rolls of bandages from the vets, and now Stiles has the wrapping down to a fine art. It's not ideal, and he has to be careful how he wraps, but the idea of buying a bra is too much. The rest is trickier, but it's not like Stiles was going round with a full beard, and after a week of heart-pounding adrenaline rushes every time he left the house, he's realised that no one (who doesn't already know) really pays him enough attention notice.

Isaac lends him a scarf to hide his neck, which he wears solidly for another week before admitting he should buy his own, and it’s coming into fall; he’d be spending most of his time in hoodies anyway, so no one's going to see the hint of bandages wrapped around his torso.

Eventually it kinda stops being so weird.

**\--------------------**

"If Allison's here on this bluff," Derek says, pointing to the map, "then Isaac and me can be over here to stop them heading off down this track."

"I can set up a barrier here," Lydia adds, tapping a spot on the map, a hefty book held under her arm.

"Fire?"

"Of course."

Derek nods, leaning forward to stare at the map. It's folded to show a portion of the forest surrounding Beacon Hills, where they know a nest of vampires has moved in. Derek's attempts at educating them as to the werewolf pack already in residence left him with claw marks from neck to ass, and then they'd killed a hiker, which basically meant extermination.

"What about me?" Stiles asks, because fuck if he's not a bit of a masochist; he knows what Derek will say, and it'll hurt as much as it did last week, with the minotaur.

Derek gives him a surprisingly patient look. "Your balance is still-"

"I'm fine," Stiles insists, but Derek shakes his head.

"Keep training with Allison," he says, "and we'll see. Right now you're a liability, not an asset." His tone is firm, and he starts refolding the map, which is a more gentle end to the conversation to him slamming a hand on the table and growling, like he did last week.

"Fine," Stiles snaps back, and he knows his voice is shaky, but it's been three weeks, and he's pissed off with the situation. Scott's hand drops onto his shoulder, hot and heavy and comforting.

"We'll call you," Scott says, forehead pinched in a worried frown, like he thinks Stiles is going to do something stupid. "Hey," he says, brightening, "you can practise that stuff Allison's teaching you?"

'That stuff' is yoga, and Stiles will never admit, not even under pain of torture (which he's getting pretty good at resisting, terrifyingly), that he kinda likes it. He's shit, and falls over every five minutes, but when he gets it right, his body feels like his own again.

"Sure," he tells Scott, finding a smile somewhere. He's pissed off, but Scott's smiling hopefully, and Stiles knows Scott doesn't want to leave without knowing he's okay, so he nods. "Sure. Be safe, yeah?"

Scott beams. "Vampires're easy," he says, with all the bright confidence of a killing machine with the mind and morals of an honest-to-god hero. He hugs Stiles, something he's been doing more often since Stiles swapped out his usual genitalia for the vagina package. It'd be great, fine even, if his hormones hadn't been going Scott-crazy before they started going magic-crazy too, and now all of his reactions are so fucked up he doesn't know what's him and what's the magic.

(That's a lie. Stiles knows damn well it's not the magic.)

\--------------------

Apart from being banned from helping the pack, and the constant low-level panic about people noticing, the thing about being newly female is that he's got no clue what to do with his equipment. It's a whole new set of signals, and he's a freaking teenager, it's not like this was easy to begin with. Now he has to figure out if that weird feeling in his stomach means he has to pee or that he's turned on, and anyone who said girls don't crave it like guys do is a fucking liar.

As soon as he's got a decent handle on what signals mean what, Stiles notices it _all the time_. He deals with it for three weeks, during which Lydia reads increasingly older books, and he gets steadily more frustrated. Being friends with three werewolves is shitty at the best of times, even if you ignore the whole might-snap-and-kill-him aspect, because they never mention it, but Stiles knows they must be able to smell his-- his hormones, or whatever it is they smell.

He's considering an evening raid on the fridge against doing homework when Derek appears on his windowsill.

"Fucking--" Stiles swears, shutting his door. His Dad is shockingly cool with werewolves, and awesome (if panicked and hiding it badly) about his son suddenly swapping a chromosome, but late-night visits from the town's resident alpha are likely pushing it. "What?"

"These need researching," Derek says, holding out a wad of folded paper. Stiles takes it, curious despite his annoyance at being benched, for lack of a better word. It's a list of words he doesn't recognise, with what look like amounts, in a handwriting he doesn't recognise.

"What is it?"

Derek shrugs. "Took it off one of the vampires," he says, eyebrows shifting into something Stiles thinks might be an apology. "Just thought you might want something to do," he explains awkwardly, and just as Stiles realises he's trying to be nice, he ruins it by sniffing and frowning, adding, "you really need to get yourself off."

Stiles yelps, offended. "I have wolfsbane and I will use it," he snaps, glaring, trying to remember where he put the bag of powdered plant. "Fuck off," he adds for good measure, but Derek's already leaping backwards.

"It's distracting," he calls back up, like it's a perfectly natural topic of conversation, already a dark shadow heading towards the forest. Stiles glares and shuts the window, sitting down at his computer with the papers. Ten minutes later he yanks his shirt off and undoes the bandages, unwinding the itchy fabric, and manages another fifteen minutes researching, sat topless. Then he sits back, having read a whole page on some weird plant on a weird pagan website without taking a word of it in, and looks down.

They're small and perky, compact, and he's got no idea how the boob-to-body ratio works, but all things considered, they don't look too bad on him. There's red marks where the bandages have been wound around them, little dents and lines in his skin, tingling with returning blood when he touches them. Stiles is no stranger to inspecting his body, but not like this; claw marks, scratches, bruises, those he's comfortable with. They're familiar.

And, like. Boobs are a thing Stiles likes. He's thought about them a lot, used to think about them more, before he became friends with Allison and Lydia, when he stopped thinking about them abstractedly and skeeved himself out. But thinking about them as attached to his body has been too weird, too scary, regardless of the fact that in the last six months he's been attacked by and helped kill more supernatural creatures than he even imagined existed.

They lift gently when he breathes in, definitely his boobs, right down to the scars still marking his skin. He's still looking down when a cold thread of air slips over his skin from his unlocked window, making his skin rise in goosebumps and his nipples peak. For a moment it feels good, and he lifts a hand, skimming it over his left nipple, feeling the twist in his gut he's come to associate with being turned on.

Then, just like that, the weirdness comes back. Stiles yanks his shirt back on and carries on researching, scribbling notes until there's grey light outside.

\--------------------

Harpies have nasty claws. Stiles wishes he'd known this before running into a pack of them on the drive home from picking Scott up from Deaton's, but then, life is full of surprises these days. His coat is ripped down one side, flapping as he runs, and there's a line of fire along his hip telling him he's injured. Scott is somewhere up ahead, drawing them off, giving Stiles time to get back to the Jeep and safety.

A sudden blur to his left sends Stiles skidding sharply to the right, heading downhill away from the harpy flying low between the trees towards him, making an unearthly screeching noise. He trips and rolls, feeling a rush of air above his head as the harpy's claws miss his head by a fraction. Scott's yelling for him, voice mingling with more screeches, but he's too far away; if he waits for Scott, Stiles will be dead before he gets there.

Stiles scrabbles round for a weapon, anything he can find, listening for the harpy's return.

His shoulder bursts into fiery pain without warning and he drops, Derek's voice in his head yelling 'get low, keep low, be as small a target as possible'. Face pressed into the ground he sees the harpy angle its wings upwards and vanish over the top of the hill, claws red with his blood, making for the rest of its flock.

Somewhere Stiles can hear Scott's howl, the crack of bones, but his immediate attention is taken up by the three long claw marks in his shoulder, his coat now shredded beyond all use. The marks burn as he pushes himself into a crouch, but he's good, he can keep going, he knows he can. His balance is fine, his body moves how it's supposed to, and he hasn't thought about his boobs in fifteen minutes. He's cool. He can kill a harpy.

"Allison, if I live through this, I'm going to buy you something really nice to say thank you," he tells the approaching harpy, making himself look as small and defenceless as possible. He's actually balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet, waiting, and when the harpy curls its wings in and drops for the kill, he pushes up and back, whipping the broken branch in his hand round to his front.

The harpy hits it with a sickening _crunch_ of ribs. Stiles lunges forward, feeling sick; the harpy is dying, he wants it dead, that bit's fine, but its breath fucking stinks, and Stiles' reaction to danger is a little off base these days. Its wings flap frantically, beating at his sides, but Stiles hangs on grimly, hysterical laughter welling up when he realises his fucking boob bandages are stopping the stiff feathers doing any real damage.

When Scott comes leaping down the hill to find him, Stiles is already back on his feet and mostly okay. The claw marks have stopped bleeding, and the wound on his hip is superficial. He's framing his hips with his hands when Scott makes it down to him.

"Do my hips look bigger?"

"Uh," Scott blinks, looking down. "Yeah, I guess."

"Weird. All dead?"

Scott shakes his head, still staring at Stiles' hips. "One took off, got away."

"Fuck. My cell's in the Jeep." Stiles glances at the dead harpy, his branch still sticking out of its crushed chest. "Why can't these things chase us _towards_ the car for a change."

\--------------------

It's a long walk back to where he left the Jeep, and the tattered shreds of his coat don't do much to keep him warm any more. The sky is darkening and he starts to shiver, gathering the remains of the coat around him and speeding up a bit, hoping Scott's right in leading them this way. His arms are mostly numb when Scott makes a sudden noise of annoyance, stopping Stiles with a shockingly warm hand.

"Here," he says, stripping off his own hoodie and trying to drape it over Stiles' shoulder. "You should've said."

Stiles squirms away, almost tripping over a tree root. "I'm not actually a fucking girl, Scott!"

Scott looks guilty, but Stiles is almost sure the puppy eyes are fake. Almost. "I know! But you-"

"Boobs don't make me a girl," Stiles points out, but grabs the hoodie anyway, because he's goddamn cold, and Scott's like a one-man bonfire. Scott lets it go, shaking his head.

"You smell like one," he says, nostrils flaring. Stiles is horrified but also totally sure that bit was unintentional; sometimes Scott's wolfy side comes out in subconscious ways, which Stiles is mostly okay with. Too okay with it, if the twist in his abdomen is what he thinks it is. "Half of me knows you're a dude, but the other half-"

"Smells girl." Stiles sighs. "Just don't start opening doors for me," he says, elbowing Scott. There's a long pause. "You thought about it, didn't you."

"Yesterday, for English."

" _Dude_." Stiles pinches Scott's bare arm, grinning at Scott's yelp. "Did Allison let you get away with this shit?"

"Only sometimes," Scott shrugs. They walk in silence for a while, until Stiles thinks he can see the Jeep up ahead, a vague outline between the trees. "Are you okay," Scott asks suddenly, when they're almost there, stopping dead. Stiles carries on a few steps before he realises Scott's not there, lost in thought.

"My shoulder's fucked and my hip feels like someone set it on fire, but yeah, I'm cool." He knows that's not what Scott meant, even before the little frown appears on Scott's forehead. Stiles considers changing the subject, or just turning and getting into the Jeep, but Scott's got his arms folded and a stubborn expression under the frown. He sighs, pulling Scott's hoodie tighter around him. "I'm fine. I've got a cunt and boobs and sometimes I forget I have to pee sitting down, but I'm fine."

There's a beat as Scott processes that. Then, "images, dude. Not cool."

Stiles grins, and means it. Mostly.

\--------------------

Later, after the phone calls and the pack meeting, Derek's grudging admittance that Stiles could join in with things again, and Stiles promising to obey Allison in all things training from now on, Scott brings it up again.

"But seriously," he says, sprawled over his sofa, Stiles tucked in between him and the back of it, warm again and not willing to move. "You okay? And don't bullshit," he adds, when Stiles squirms until he can see Scott's face, strangely lit by the flickering light of a dvd menu screen.

Stiles bites back his witty comment, and considers. Sets aside the bandages on his shoulder and hip, ignores the fact that being pressed up against Scott is doing the same things to his body that it’s been doing for months, and takes full stock. "Yeah," he says, after a while, feeling Scott's eyes on him. "I'm okay. It's weird as fuck, and I want my dick back, but whatever. Weirder things have happened."

Scott snorts. "You're a girl, Stiles, what's weirder than that?"

"Lydia casting that flying spell and levitating for three days," Stiles says instantly, "Derek getting turned into an angry pot plant-"

"I don't think that ever happened."

"Fucking did, he had angry flowers and everything."

"You're such a liar," Scott says, and Stiles jabs him in the ribs with a foot, which changes the subject into a tickle-war-slash-fight pretty neatly. Stiles fights dirty, always has, even before Scott got some supernatural help, and for a brief moment he forgets about the girl shit, until Stiles cracks his elbow on the floor and yelps. They freeze, listening for signs that they woke Melissa McCall up, on long shifts and not above smacking them for interrupting her precious sleep. "You fight the same," Scott says quietly. Stiles shrugs.

"I'm the same person, Scott. Just different equipment."

"I know," he says, still quiet. He rolls over to look at Stiles, expression serious, and something else, something Stiles can't figure out but instantly catalogues as _dangerous_. "My brain tells me one thing, my nose tells me another."

"Brain," Stiles says instantly, "listen to the brain. I know it doesn't get much use, but-"

"Shut up," Scott says, laughing, and Stiles can breathe again.

\--------------------

The look on Scott's face comes back to him later, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, awake at one am for no goddamn reason. He checks Derek's not lurking in a dark corner, and there're no texts about wolf emergencies, so he's left with his thoughts.

And, gradually, the uncomfortable awareness that yeah, those are horny signals, he's turned on. Still. Like this body has no off switch- and yeah, Stiles gets the irony, he's a teenager, his real body is like that, but in this one it’s weirder, because he still hasn't figured out how to fix it, even temporarily. Derek had said it bluntly and it had been mind-blowingly embarrassing, once Stiles thought about it, because Derek, but now he's thinking about…that.

He rolls over and tries not to.

Two am. Still awake, still thinking about it.

Three am, and Stiles starts to think Derek dropping through his window would be a blessing right about now.

Four am, and he falls asleep to vague dreams about hands on his skin.

**\--------------------**

Lacrosse practice is a fucking nightmare these days, even with Scott running interference so Stiles can pack up and leave without people noticing he doesn't change his undershirt. He could tell an easy lie if any of the guys saw the bandages, joke about falling off Scott's bike, or the perils of being a teenage ninja, but it's hassle, and he's got enough to deal with.

Today he's even more on edge, strung out and frustrated, and it shows in his playing; he tackles harder, manages some good passes, but he's not really thinking about it, playing on autopilot. He flinches when Danny catches his arm, startled out of staring mindlessly into his locker. Danny lets go instantly.

"Sorry," he says, stepping back. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Stiles snaps, and immediately wishes he hadn't. Behind Danny Scott is watching, concerned, and Stiles knows he's ready to step in, be Stiles's knight in shining armour. He sighs, smiles, tries to ignore the way his bandages are digging into his skin. "Just tired," he adds, in what he hopes is a calmer voice. From the look on Scott's face it doesn't really work.

"Sure." Danny smiles back, slightly, and makes to leave. Then he turns back. "Look, Stiles, if you ever need to talk, I'm around. We're friends."

Stiles stares after him as he leaves, giving Scott a goodbye clap on the shoulder. "Dude," Scott says after a moment, staring too. "Do you think he knows?"

"Anything's possible," Stiles says thoughtfully, "and with Danny, probable." He files that idea away for future reference. "C'mon, I wanna get home. These bandages are itching like crazy."

Being perched on the back of Scott's bike produces its own problems. Hey, it's not the first time; vibrations, warm body, usually it takes less than that to set Stiles off. But now it's worse, because he can't get home and jerk off, pretending he's not thinking about a specific warm body. Instead his body is practically vibrating with frustration, and he knows Scott must be able to smell it - hell, Stiles can practically smell it, sweat from practice and something else underneath.

Scott pulls up in front of the house and Stiles practically leaps off, passing Scott the helmet. "See you later?" Scott asks, bright and open and apparently completely unaware that Stiles is burning up from the inside. He's probably very aware; Scott can be selectively tactful sometimes, and oh god, he's frozen in place thinking about it, and Scott's still staring at him.

"Sure," Stiles says, and bolts for the house.

Inside he slams his bedroom door and goes for it. On his back on the bed, shirt discarded, jeans and boxers shoved off, bandages unwound into a tangled mess. He starts too fast, and there's a lot of rubbing that does nothing at all, some rubbing that is intermittently fantastic, and some painful poking, but he's not gonna give up, not after three weeks of frustration and being permanently horny. No one ever told him how to jerk off; he just figured it out, learned what to do with his body, and this is his body now. He just has to relearn it all.

So he does. He slows right down, learns his new body. Runs his hands over its unfamiliar curves, the way his waist dips in before the flare of his hips, more pronounced now. The way skimming his hands over his stomach makes something low in his gut flutter. The soft swell of his breasts is fascinating, and this time when his nipples peak he runs a fingertip over them, shivering with the sensation.

After that it's almost easy.

Stiles thinks _fuck it,_ gets his hand between his legs, experimenting with hands and fantasies until he hits a sweet spot and figures it out, legs shaking, heat pooling in his stomach, fingers getting slick as he bucks up against his hand. Not even the muscles in his arm starting to ache can make him stop, images flicking through his mind; the lush fall of Lydia's hair, porn he watched before the magic, that look on Scott's face-

He comes gasping, harder than he expected, fingers pressing in short little rubs to keep the sensation going by instinct, curling in on himself with a noise made low in his throat. Eventually he has to stop, the sweet spot between his legs oversensitive, but the rest of his body feels relaxed and boneless. The tension of the last few weeks has drained out of him, leaving behind a tingling warmth that Stiles wants to bask in. It doesn't solve anything, but hey, he doesn't miss his dick so much right now, wherever it's gone.

The buzz of his cell interrupts the afterglow, and he seriously considers ignoring it and going for round two, pressing his legs together and shuddering at the jolt of sensation. But curiosity has him wiping his hand on the sheet and reaching for his cell anyway, even as part of his brain catalogues the post-orgasm weirdness of his body; slickness between his legs, shaky muscles, an ache in his fingers. Stiles focuses.

The message is from Scott. _want a ride to Dereks??_

For a moment, Stiles stares on the word 'ride', brain shorting out again. He sits up, shaking his head to clear it. 'Later', he realises, meant Derek's place for a pack meeting. He doesn't want to go, wants to savour the feeling of release. Girl orgasms, Stiles decides, are fucking amazing. Pack meetings are not, what with how they often end in pain, and that's just Derek.

On the other hand, not going would lead to pain, after arguing so hard to be allowed to fight despite suddenly possessing the wrong genitalia.

\--------------------

Stiles regrets going as soon as he walks in the door. The three werewolves look up and immediately scent the air, nostrils flaring. Stiles feels himself flush.

"So," he says brightly. "More vampire problems?" He knows damn well that's the problem, because he was late and Scott's texts got a bit…frantic, but fuck, it's that or let one of them open their mouth about his scent being different, and no. Stiles is not that much of a masochist.

"Reinforcements, we think," Allison tells him, looking between him and the other three. She rolls her eyes. "We need a new plan, there's too many for the original ambush site."

"Shit," Stiles says, and sits down. More vampires is a bigger problem than three werewolves who wouldn't know subtlety if it gave them a lap dance.

**\--------------------**

"I'm going to kill you for this," Scott growls, and behind him a vampire snarls, "not if I kill him first," and leaps forward, sharp nails aiming for his neck. Stiles ducks as far as he can, but being tied to a tree limits his movements somewhat, and all he succeeds in doing is wrenching his arms painfully. Scott twists and leaps, taking the vampire down, leaving Stiles to keep frantically sawing at the rope around his torso with the knife Allison had pressed into his hand earlier.

"It wasn't my finest plan," Stiles yells at Scott, because it makes the vampire look as well, long enough for Scott to rip its head practically off its body with one swipe of claws. "A little help? This rope is made of fucking metal or something."

"You," Scott says, pointing at Stiles with a hand still in wolf mode, eyes flashing, "are an idiot. And a moron. And a-" Another vampire takes him out from the side and sends them rolling out of Stiles' line of sight, leaving him with a lovely view of a pool of black water and, on the other side of it, a still-burning corpse that Lydia had left behind earlier. Behind him he hears Derek's growl of triumph, which he assumes means a vampire has just bit the dust - heh - and Isaac went feral about ten minutes ago, chasing a group of three younger vampires off into the darkness.

There's a sudden lull in the sounds of fighting, and Stiles thinks they've won. He's about to shout for someone to help him with the fucking rope, which still won't cut, but then a figure steps out from the blind spot to his left, and Stiles freezes.

"So helpless," the vampire says, voice like silk, skin like ancient paper, and bringing with it - her - a sense of malignant power. "So weak and feeble, you can't even remove a rope."

"Hey, it's tough rope," Stiles says, gripping onto the knife. It'll be next to useless, but he's done more with less. He can't hear any of the others now, and even Allison's silhouette has vanished from where she was raining down silver-pointed death.

"It must be, to hold the sacrifice." And yeah, hadn't that been a stroke of luck. Thirty vampires, half the California population, somehow unaware of the vampire slaughter Stiles had missed due to sudden girlparts, and all gathered in Beacon Hills for a ritual sacrifice that needed a virgin girl - fucking typical, the two girls hadn't been impressed - and since Stiles was a newly qualified girl, he'd volunteered himself for the role. Without telling anyone until it was almost too late, so yeah, Scott was pissed for good reason. "And what a pretty sacrifice," the vampire continued, interrupting Stiles attempts to listen for the return of help.

"I'm okay," he says, flippant. "Bit boring, really. Not vampire material-"

"I'll be the judge of that," she says, and comes close, far too close for Stiles.

"Personal space," he yelps, leaning away as much as he can. She lifts a hand and places it on his cheek, strength born of supernatural aid forcing his head back upright, until he's looking directly at her. "Not to be rude, but I'm really not good with people being in my space-"

"Quiet," she snaps, and Stiles' mouth shuts with a painful clack of teeth. She runs her nails down the side of his face, temple to chin, making Stiles' shudder in revulsion. "So pretty, and so young. So… unspoiled," she adds, voice slipping from silk to a purr, throaty and pleased. "A fitting handmaiden for my sisters and I."

"A what- wait, lady, look, I don't wanna disappoint you, but-"

"Oh, I am well aware of what you are, young shifter." The vampire lifts a knife from an inner pocket of her coat, and Stiles spares a moment for a fleeting hysterical thought that Lydia would probably like that coat, before opening his mouth and screaming as loudly as he can. The vampire's faded beauty twists into a snarl and she leaps for him, but Stiles isn't entirely tied up; he kicks a leg up and she crashes into it with a snap of old, brittle bones, an unearthly shriek rising from her throat.

"Little girl who runs with wolves," she snarls at him, on her hands and knees on the forest floor, all polish gone, a feral creature in fashionable clothing, "so ripe and ready and full of blood."

"Nasty," Stiles says, and dives out of her way as the rope finally snaps, hearing her howl and hit the tree as he hits the dirt. He tucks and rolls, coming up onto his knees, knife held in front of him, for all the good it'll do. But Scott is there, slamming her back against the tree, eyes vivid yellow and claws digging into her flesh.

It's weirdly hot, and over in seconds.

"I am fucking sick of this," Stiles says, still kneeling in the dirt. His hands are shaking, and he digs them into the forest floor to hide it, pushing away the brief flare of lust at seeing Scott in full-on, murderous, wolf-mode. _That's new_ , he tells himself, breathing smoke-scented air, and knows it's another lie. Lydia crouches down at his side, hands shaking as well. _Too much magic_ , Stiles thinks distantly.

"I'm sorry," she says. Stiles sits back on his heels, hands steady, and looks at her.

"It's not your fault," he tells her, because it's not. It's no one's fault, except maybe the pixie's, but that little fucker is dead, so there's not much to be done. "At least I'm not levitating," he says, to see her smile.

"Or an angry pot plant," she says, leaning against him briefly, and they both look up at Derek, clothes covered in blood, scowling blackly. They start giggling, and only when Lydia starts to seriously shake does Stiles come back to earth.

"Shit, shit, Scott, help me." Between them they get Lydia on her feet, and Derek takes her weight, Allison on her other side, helping her walk back to where they left their cars. Stiles follows behind, an arm slung around Scott's shoulder, his arm burning.

"Don't ever do that again," Scott suddenly says, voice low, pitched dark and for them only, although Stiles bets Derek can still hear.

"I handled it," Stiles says, stung. "I did okay."

"You almost had your heart ripped out!"

Stiles voice rises too, loud in the quietness of the dark forest. "So I can't help because I'm a girl now?"

"Because you're-" Scott cuts himself off, making a frustrated noise. He takes a deep breath, his eyes flashing yellow in the dark for the briefest of seconds. Stiles swallows hard. "You're my best friend, and half of me knows you can handle it, but the rest of me knows your body is screwed up right now."

"I'm tired," Stiles says, because he can't. Not when he's bleeding and aching from a dozen bruises, not when it's too dark to see Scott's face properly, not when he's fairly sure Scott isn't differentiating between _human_ and _wolf_ right now. "I- dude, I know, but I'm not- I can't. If I think about it too much I'll panic, and if I panic I'm no use to anyone." Even as he says it, Stiles isn't sure which bit of the fucked up situation he means. Which, yeah. Shit.

Scott is silent for a while, long enough for them to reach the Jeep. Derek's got Lydia into his car, Isaac slinking out of the trees to slide into the backseat with Allison, looking fully human, but who knows. Stiles climbs into the Jeep, leaning back with a groan of relief. Scott turns the engine on but makes no move to drive off, and Stiles tilts his head until he can crack open an eye and look at him.

Scott's face is in profile, but it looks human, his hands normal on the steering wheel, his eyes invisible in the gloom. Stiles doesn't know what's going on with him- with them, really, is suddenly too tired and bruised and scared to want to find out, but it's coming. Just not yet, if he can manage it.

"That was really stupid," Scott says, and there's an edge to his voice, the wolf lurking just beneath the surface. "And it would have been stupid if you were still a guy- shut up, I know, it's the principle of the thing."

 _Big word_ , Stiles almost snarks, because he's tired and sarcastic and just wants to go home. But he doesn't. "I know," he says instead, quietly. Scott nods.

"You're always useful," he says, in his you're-an-idiot-but-you're-my-best-friend voice. "Your plans suck, and you're an idiot, but you're still good at this."

"High praise," Stiles says dryly. "Can we go home now?"

\--------------------

The vampire's words, _so ripe and ready and full of blood,_ come back to haunt him when the cramps start. Stiles grits his teeth and swallows Motrin, bought at a drugstore somewhere people don't know him, with tampons and pads and half a dozen other things he thought he might need. He's not stupid; Lydia and Allison have helped with training and searching for a spell to turn him back, but they're not his magical fairy godmothers. There's been no shopping montage or girly nights with popcorn and films. He's just gotta deal with it, same as they do.

At lunch Scott sits down next to him and sniffs deeply, expression immediately turning worried.

"Are you okay?" He whispers, leaning in. "You smell like blood. Is your arm okay?"

"My arm is fine," Stiles grits out between clenched teeth. Scott's frown deepens.

"Did something else happen? It's fresh, did you get-"

"Scott." Stiles clamps a hand over Scott's mouth. "I'm a girl now." He holds his hand there until the comprehension dawns in Scott's eyes. "I am not having this conversation with you. Ever." He takes his hand away. Scott sits frozen for a long moment while Stiles tries to eat lunch, mouth open.

"So, the full works then," Scott eventually says, grinning suddenly, and Stiles is not truly the kind to murder in cold blood, but there are exceptions. He can blame it on the cramps. That's a thing, right? He'll have to ask Allison.

\--------------------

Two days later and Stiles' hands are slick with blood, so much of it, more than he ever wanted to see coming out of Scott. Again. Shit, their lives are weird. He presses one hand against Scott's side, keeping his intestines roughly in place and clutching - not that he'll admit it - at one of Scott's hands with his other. Between the blood, and the roars from the rest of the pack, and the howls of the wendigos, Stiles finds a moment to wish fervently for some more Motrin.

And his old body. That would be great right about now.

Scott coughs suddenly, blood spattering across Stiles' face. He doesn't notice. "Scott? You alive?"

"No," Scott says weakly, "I'm dead. I'm haunting you."

"Fucker," Stiles tells him fondly, and spits the taste of Scott's blood out of his mouth. At the same moment a vicious cramp twists his insides and his hand tightens around Scott's, fighting the urge to curl into a ball and whimper.

"Stiles?" Scott twists his head to try and see Stiles' face, making fresh blood push up between the hand Stiles still had pressed to his stomach. Stiles straightens up, toes curling in his boots, under the two layers of socks necessary to make them fit, and shrugs as easily as he can. Somewhere, something dies loudly.

"It's nothing," he tells Scott, keeping pressure on the wound, warm blood still welling up. "Cramps again."

Scott frowns, apparently more interested in Stiles' problems than his own. "Bad ones?"

"I don't- is there a scale? Like, one is nothing, ten is wanting to rip out someone's eyeballs for fun? Because I gotta tell you, I'm hovering around that right now, and it's got nothing to do with the fact that I'm bleeding from my fucking cunt." _Lie_ , and he knows Scott will know that, but hey, bigger problems here.

Scott frowns, but Stiles ignores it, focusing on the blood rapidly congealing around his hands. He's still not used to how fast werewolves heal.  "Are you-"

"I'm fine," Stiles cuts him off, peeling his hand and then Scott's shirt away, wincing. "It's a thing now, it's just a thing I've got to deal with- dude, don't move, fucking-" He frees his hand from where he was still clutching at Scott's, and presses down on Scott's shoulder to stop him sitting up. "Your insides are on the outside, give it a minute."

"You don't have to deal with it alone," Scott says, earnest friendship in every syllable. Stiles stares at him, bloody hands, cramps, and his constant irritation at his current body forgotten for a moment.

"I'm not- what?" Stiles blinks. Moves his hand out of the way of Scott's skin, which is rapidly knitting itself back together. Stares at Scott, who stares back, human and open and so damn nice. He's honestly surprised, because he's never thought that. "There's a whole pack of people who've been helping me," he tells Scott, wiping his hands off on the leaf litter beneath them. He uses the movement to dig his fingers deep into the soil until another cramp has passed, and hopes Scott won't have noticed.

"Good," Scott says decisively, like something major just happened. Maybe it did; Stiles' brain is operating on several different levels right now, and not all of his brainpower is focused on the nuances of their conversation. "I'm- we're all here. For you. To, y'know, help." And, okay, Stiles' doesn't need much focus to get _that_ nuance, shit, that's not good-

Never before, and never again, will he be glad of a wendigo for a distraction.

"Those things," Stiles gasps out some time later, "are fucking terrifying."

"Nightmares," Scott says, muffled, lying flat next to Stiles with his face shoved into the forest floor. Stiles rolls his head over until he can see Scott, even that making his body ache in protest.

"Not a sentence," he says. Scott lifts a hand and, after flailing for a moment, hits Stiles on the shoulder. "Fucking what, dude, it's not, c'mon-"

Scott twists his head until his face it clear of the earth, and glares at the bright grin Stiles gives him. "The wendigos," he says, enunciating each syllable clearly and with more of the wolf in his voice than Stiles thinks he realises, "are going to give me nightmares."

"Well done, that was a complete sentence," Stiles says, with too-bright cheeriness, trying to cover how exhausted and shaky he is, not to mention the hot flush his body does whenever he looks at Scott these days. Or how disturbingly hot he's apparently still finding Scott's werewolf eyes, oh fuck. He sits up with a jerk, just as Derek comes over to them, blood covering the hand he holds out to Stiles to help him up.

"Lighter?" Derek asks, and tosses the one Stiles passes him over to Isaac, stood next to three of the wendigo bodies. "Scott?"

"Yeah." Scott puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder, pulling him round until they're looking at each other. Stiles' heart kicks up a notch. "Are you okay? Beyond this," he adds, gesturing towards the merrily burning wendigo bonfire. "Are- are we okay?"

Stiles opens his mouth to make a flip comment, but Scott's hand shifts, resting against his neck, warm and familiar, and it's so tempting to lean into it, just for a moment. He steps back instead, bites his lip at the split-second flare of yellow eyes, and feels his cunt clench in a new and unbearably good way. Too much and not enough, and god, why is this his life? "Have I not been paying you enough attention? I know you're high maintenance, but-"

"Stiles."

His mouth snaps shut, Scott's hand back on the side of his neck, but this time anchoring him in place.

“We’re okay,” he says, mouth gone suddenly dry. “We’re always okay, Scott, it’s you and me. We’re- yeah. Always.” His tongue isn’t working, the words a meaningless babble in the face of Scott’s intense gaze and the shake he can feel starting in his bones. He wants- he wants to say more, to drag it all out into the open, but Derek is right behind them and Isaac is getting trigger happy with a lighter, and Scott’s still covered in blood, and-

Now isn’t the time.

Scott’s eyes narrow, but instead of saying anything he just pulls Stiles into a hug, tight and warm. And yeah, okay, it’s problematically awesome, but still grounding, just like always.

Stiles drops his head onto Scott’s shoulder and just breathes, until the wendigo bodies catch fire and they have to move because the smell makes them all retch.

His life, _what_.

\--------------------

Stiles feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin. He's washed the wendigo blood out of his hair, changed his mud-stained clothes, and tightly re-wrapped his bandages, but it's not enough. He can still feel the hot press of Scott's fingers against his neck, still see the look in Scott's eyes that makes him shiver, and his body keeps remembering how much it liked Scott's voice when it bordered on a throaty growl.

"You could go out," his Dad offers, stood awkwardly over the couch where Stiles is flicking through the tv channels, and failing so hard at being casual. Stiles loves him _so much_ for even trying.

"Yeah, because there's so much to do in Beacon Hills," Stiles snarks back, but he's grinning. It slips off his face after a beat, because his dad…isn't.

"Not here," he says, "someplace else. Someplace you could just be- be you."

Stiles blinks. "Are you- are you telling me to-"

"No," his Dad cuts him off, one hand raised. "I don't want to know what you're thinking. I said my thing, I don't need to know where you run with it. Plausible deniability."

"I think I've been a bad influence on you," Stiles says wonderingly, after a pause. His dad rolls his eyes, but he's grinning, and when he leaves for the late shift he leaves cash on the kitchen table. There's a note on top, telling Stiles to _have some fun - but don't ever tell me about it_. Stiles grins. Whatever else is fucked up, his dad is awesome.

\--------------------

Except, when it comes down to it, Stiles doesn't want to go out. As appealing as the idea of getting blind drunk and finding someone to grind against is, the logical conclusion of that makes him shudder. And yeah, he'll admit it, a random stranger from Rave isn't who he wants. In the end he grabs one of his dad's bottles of whiskey and heads for the door.

It's dark outside, but Stiles has a taser and wolfsbane, so he figures he's okay to take a walk. There's an overlook with a picnic table and a fire pit, just right for a pity party of one. Somewhere over to the east the wendigo bonfire is probably dying down, but it should serve as a warning for a few more days; he's unlikely to get eaten, or as unlikely as he ever is.

\--------------------

Stiles is three quarters drunk when Scott finds him. He's sat on the top of the picnic bench, bottle cradled on his lap, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands against the night's chill, and there's a lot less whiskey in the bottle than there was when he sat down. Scott lopes up the steep hill to where Stiles is perched, Stiles watching with unease.

"Of all the gin joints in all the world," he says once Scott is close enough, and takes a quick gulp of alcohol. Scott's grin is only half a one, his eyes hovering between human and wolf.

"How drunk are you?"

"I am--" Stiles holds the bottle up so Scott can see it, "--that drunk." Scott lifts an eyebrow.

"So that'll be very," he says.

Stiles shrugs, and scoots over slightly. "Wanna join me?"

"Not unless it's special whiskey."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry dude."

Silence falls, Stiles looking out at the distant lights of Beacon Hills, visible through a break in the trees. He focuses all of his remaining attention on the nighttime view, but every fibre of his body is aware that Scott is staring at him. Eventually Stiles reaches for the bottle again, but Scott shifts his weight, and his hands drop back to cradling it instead.

"What?" He demands, annoyed; Scott didn't even say anything, and he's doing as he's told, what the fuck.

"So you're up here, like a sitting target-"

"Taser!" Stiles pulls it from his pocket and waves it at Scott, who steps forward and takes it with a deft move. "Hey, that's mine!"

"It's not armed," Scott says, and there's a note in his voice that sends a shiver down Stiles' spine. Scott's suddenly close, too close for Stiles' inebriated state, and he can already feel the heat that Scott radiates now.

"I can do that." Stiles reaches out a demanding hand, but Scott slips the taser into his pocket. "Now I'm drunk and defenceless, great fucking plan-"

"I'm here," Scott points out, and oh god, that's his alpha voice. It makes Stiles' gut twist, and there's not enough alcohol in the world to be the only reason for that. "I'm better than a taser," he adds, and Stiles can't help laughing. It makes him wobble, though, and before he can stop the movement Scott's hand is gripping his shoulder, keeping him upright.

The heat goes straight through his clothes and hits skin, too much and not enough and oh fucking hell, he's not drunk enough for this. "I," he tells Scott, "am not drunk enough for this."

"For what?" Scott asks, and his voice is so calm that Stiles almost - almost - thinks he doesn't know. But there's a second where his nostrils flare, and Stiles has been around werewolves long enough to know what that means.

"Are you scenting me?" He yelps, voice cracking slightly, because fuck, the last thing he needs is this, not when his dick is currently fuck-knows-where and he's borderline too drunk to climb off a picnic table.

"Sorry, sorry." Scott takes a step back, letting go of Stiles' shoulder, eyes flashing yellow for a brief second, nostrils flaring. "You just smell good- fuck, sorry-"

"Good like food or good like sex," Stiles asks, and clamps his mouth shut with an audible clack. Scott's eyes had flared fully, Stiles' cunt had clenched, and oh fucking Christ, that's still a new and unusual sensation. With exaggerated care Stiles picks the bottle up from his lap, twists, and places it behind him. When he turns back, Scott is stood in front of him. There's several paces between them, but to a werewolf that's nothing. From the look on Scott's face, Stiles isn't entirely sure the move was all his idea. Not the human part, anyway.

Stiles suddenly feels much more sober, and much more angry.

"What," Stiles snaps, "now I'm a girl you want me? Now I've got a cunt and boobs, I'm suddenly fuckable?"

There it is again, the flash of yellow, with the same effect. "No," Scott yelps, suddenly human all over, earnest brown puppy eyes no hints of wolfishness at all. He takes a deep breath, and another step back. "It's the wolf," he says, calm and controlled. "It's confused."

Stiles tilts his head. Drunk in the middle of the night, he's fallen into the exact conversation he never wanted to have. Just his fucking luck. "Your wolf," he says slowly, "wants me? Like this?" He gestures to himself, to the bandaged boobs and baggy crotch of his jeans, to the too-big boots and different bone structure.

"It-- thinks it does." A hesitation isn't good; hesitations mean people get hurt, or worse, because information is being withheld, and suddenly Stiles feels sharply sober.

"Not an answer, Scott," he says, and it comes out with a snap. He can hardly see Scott, not now the lights of the town are behind him; Scott can see him, Stiles knows, and with perfect clarity. Can see him, smell him, and hear his heart. His pounding heart, he realises, because Scott had taken that step forward again, and another. "C'mon."

"It's confused," Scott eventually says, voice quiet in the dark. "You're you, but you're not, and it's confused."

"Aren't we all," Stiles says, annoyed. Scott runs his hand through his hair, the outline of his body broad and solid against the lights of Beacon Hills. "So?"

"It's difficult to explain," and yeah, duh, everything's complicated, has been since Peter Hale took a chunk out of Stiles' best friend and gave him claws. Why would this be any different? Scott must read some of that in Stiles' face, because even in the dark Stiles can tell that he shifts his weight again. Stiles makes a 'carry on' gesture, leaning back on his arms, feeling kinda steadier.

"You're-- before I'd even accepted the wolf," Scott starts, and Stiles' nails dig into the rough wood of the table. There's no outward signs of a change this time, but his voice is pure wolf, pure alpha again, and it's just another entry on the reasons why Stiles' life is fucking screwed, because it makes parts of him turn to liquid fire. He presses his legs together and focuses. "The wolf had accepted you," Scott continues. "It knew who you were, what you were to me, and now it's- it thought you'd be a good mate," he says, and fuck.

Scott should have said that awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Stiles, during a Halo rematch or lacrosse practice. Not with such intensity or dark depth to his voice, and not when two faint rings of yellow tell Stiles that Scott is looking straight at him.

"So what stopped it?" Stiles asks, and shit, he's shaking, alcohol still buzzing in his bloodstream despite the cold sobriety of his head. He slips his hands between his legs and presses them together again. "Why now, why not before?"

"I stopped it. You're my best friend," Scott says, and yeah, that's the human side of Scott, quiet and decent to his core. "I met Allison, and learnt to control the wolf, and somewhere…I guess some wires got crossed."

"That-" _makes no sense_ , Stiles thinks, but stops, because it does. If Scott had controlled the wolf during his everything-is-Allison stage, and controlled the sudden feelings for Stiles too, then the wolf probably assumed (for lack of a better word; it's not a second consciousness, not really, despite Derek's tendency to think of it like that) that Scott was exclusively attracted to women, and been subdued. "Dude."

"It still wants you like that." Stiles can see Scott's shrug. "As a mate. I just pushed the other stuff down so far it doesn't push it very often. Just- when you're topless, or sleepy."

"When I'm vulnerable," Stiles supplies. His eyes have adjusted now, and he sees the flex of Scott's hands. "And now?"

"Now you smell like a girl-"

"Woman."

"--woman, and it wants you so much, Stiles, I can't-" Scott's hands shift entirely this time, and he's gone before Stiles can speak. Somewhere there's the sound of splintering wood. Stiles considers his options. On the one hand, he's drunk and cold and shit scared of this conversation. On the other hand, he's so turned on it burns, and if Scott wants him, not just the wolf, then it might be okay. After all the shit Stiles has been through, he figures he's allowed the chance to find out.

He carefully stands up, body loose and buzzing in the way that being drunk does to him, but no longer feeling like the world is spinning. The air is cold and sharp in his lungs. He leaves the bottle on the table for some lucky hiker to find, and moves to the top of the slope.

"Scott?"

There's a long pause. Then; "go home, Stiles," comes floating up out of the dark.

Stiles grins up at the sky. "You've got my taser still," he calls back. When he looks down Scott is stood in front of him, holding out the taser. His nails are still borderline claw-like, and he's holding the taser in such a way that Stiles won't have to touch him to take it. Stiles looks at it, and considers, and decides the universe fucking owes him. He steps past it, and straight into Scott's personal space.

There's an instant when Scott's arms go round him, warm and solid, like he physically can't help himself, and then they're gone, dropping to Scott's sides. Stiles takes another half-step, until there's a bare inch between them. He has to look up at Scott from here, having shrunk a couple of inches. He's still pissed about that. Well, whatever, and the rest.

"How long have you known?" He asks, because fuck it, they're well past the point of pretence. Scott’s on the same page, obviously, because he doesn’t try to avoid the question, just looks thoughtful.

“Since- I think since the vampires. _I_ knew, anyway.”

“Be specif- speca- speci- did the wolf know before that?” Stiles gives up on the word. He’s drunk and too turned on to think straight, it’ll come to him later.

“Yeah. As soon as you’d been like this few days, it thought- it _wanted_.” The emphasis on the last word makes more parts of Stiles melt into liquid fire, and he’s torn between desperately needing sex of _any_ kind and the constant _ew wrong_ feeling that comes with following that thought to its conclusion.

“Okay, so- wait,” Stiles demands, struck by a thought. “Where’s - give me the taser, dude, I’m getting twitchy about you holding a lethal weapon where I can’t see it.

Scott pulls his arm back, taser held flat in the palm of his hand. “Safety’s still on,” is all Scott says, and this is why Stiles loves him, because neither of them have to _say_ that Scott is a lethal weapon these days, but they know they’re both thinking it.

“So here’s what I’m going to do,” Stiles says, not slurring at all. He pockets the taser, and rocks slightly on the balls of his feet, just enough to bring him millimeters away from scott’s mouth and away again. “I’m going to kiss you, totally not freak out about the fact that I’m doing it in the wrong body, and you’re going to kiss me back.”

Scott’s eyes flare again, but he just nods, barely even breathing. Stiles leans up, and in, and between one breath and another fits his mouth to Scott’s. It deepens immediately, hot and easy and good, Stiles’ hands grabbing fistfuls of Scott’s shirt, the pressure of Scott’s fingers like individual stripes of heat on his hips.

It’s fucking amazing, but Stiles is drowning for a moment, the alcohol mixed with the disconnect between how he _thinks_ his body should react and how it actually does making him feel nauseous and too-much-too- _much_. Then he realises, dizzily, that like in every fucked up situation, Scott is there to ground him.

“If I ever get bitten,” he says, pulling back long enough to talk, because he’s still kinda drunk and is struck by the necessity of saying this, like, _right now_ , “you’d be my anchor. Or my feelings would. Our friendship. You. Yeah.” He leans back in, but Scott’s lips are soft and not moving, so he leans back out again. “Scott?”

Scott blinks at him, looking shocked turned on and hiding both badly. “Do you- do you mean that?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah. Not that I ever want to get bitten, but-” Scott bends down and kisses him with such intensity that Stiles grabs onto his shoulders hard, one hand sliding up into Scott’s hair for better grip, and does his best to kiss back, muddled and overheated, suddenly desperate for his dick back so he can grind against Scott and feel the right kind of friction, not the slick heat he has now.

Abruptly the disconnect is too much, and he feels panic well up, but it’s barely formed before Scott is pulling away and grabbing Stiles’ hands in one of his own, the other a calm, solid pressure on the nape of his neck. Stiles catches his breath, knows he’s not just breathing hard because of the kissing.

“I think we should get you home,” Scott says, voice low. His thumb strokes gently over the soft skin on Stiles’ neck, and they stand there for a long moment, Stiles focusing on the back-and-forth rhythm until he can swallow without feeling sick. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, knows Scott doesn’t mean the kissing. “Just-” He doesn’t know how to finish, but Scott nods, slings an arm round Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him down the slope towards home.

They’re almost back to Stiles’ when his stomach lurches into his chest, because- "Do you think we should- do you want to have sex? Like this?"

"No," Scott says, voice a rumble in the dark. "Dude, no, I'm not gonna ask you that. Besides," he adds, and if Stiles squints he can see the grin, like Scott can't help himself, "Lydia said it won't work."

"Lydia? Oh my god, you asked Lydia. My life is over."

"You accidentally got turned into a girl," Scott points out, "your life is already screwed."

"Fucking right it is."

\--------------------

Hangovers are the same regardless of gender or genitalia, Stiles decides, once he’s finished throwing up. His mouth tastes like the time he accidentally breathed in some of the smoke from their wendigo bonfire, and when he looks in the bathroom mirror the person looking back has all too clearly had a rough night.

For a long, long moment, Stiles stares at his reflection, brain flicking over the differences for the thousandth time, cataloging them on one level while his memories from the night before sort themselves out. Same sharp cheekbones, _I kissed Scott_ , rounder jaw, _he kissed me back_ , no stubble, _it felt good_ , softer skin, _I called Scott my anchor_ , swell of breasts under his worn shirt, _not my body not my bodynotmynotmy NOT MY-_

Stiles’ fist slams into the wall next to the mirror, and he feels his skin split.

Derek’s text, when it comes, is a grounding in reality. He changes fast, leaves a streak of blood on the bathroom wall he’ll have to clean off before his dad sees it, and gets out of the house.

He can do this. (That’s not a lie, but it’s not really the truth either.)

\--------------------

Another month goes go by, and as it turns out, cramps aren’t so bad once you get a handle on how to deal with them. Stiles deliberately doesn’t think about the fact that he might have to deal with them for the rest of his life - panic attack waiting to happen, right there - and swallows Motrin as often as he can get away with it.

Scott helps, in his own way. He makes Stiles train with him until his legs shake and his vision is blurred, makes Stiles show him yoga and argues him the whole time that exercise is good for period pains. Stiles thinks he’s asked for advice from the wrong girl, but gives in, knows the rewards are worth it. He doesn’t feel as out of place in his body these days, not physically anyway; it does what he wants, when he wants, with a minimum of fuss.

And now he can fall asleep next to Scott, who will mock the boobs and that he has to pee sitting down now, but never pushes for bare skin, who Stiles knows is horny and wants but never asks for more when they’re making out. Who will rub warm, gentle circles onto his lower back, and murmur soothingly when Stiles bitches about how maybe he should’ve let the vampires turn him into a fucking handmaiden after all, because vampires don’t have to deal with this shit.

“You’d technically be dead though,” Scott says, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ shoulder, through his old shirt. Stiles nods vigorously.

“ _Exactly_ ,” he says, “and it wouldn’t hurt. Technically or otherwise.” He groans as another cramp twists his insides. Scott shifts to faceplant into his pillow, reaching out blind to grab the box of Motrin off his bedside table.

“This is so fucking weird,” he says, muffled by the pillow. Stiles sits up and swallows two pills dry, because that’s what repeated injuries will do to you, they make you an expert in taking medication without water. Freaking werewolves.

“Everything is weird,” he says, pissed off because he’s bleeding his insides out and it makes all the panicky worries harder to deal with. Scott tilts his head enough so Stiles can see his smile, and he leans down, relieved, presses a kiss to the corner of it. “We’re going to have so much sex when my dick is back.” Scott laughs into the pillow, one of his hands finding Stiles’ and squeezing tightly.

Stiles’ friends - or his boyfriend, even, if they get a quiet moment to discuss that - are an embarrassment of riches, and he’s not giving them up for _anything_. Not even eternal life without cramps.  

Having a period is still an excruciating experience when you’re friends with several werewolves, though, and when only one of whom has learnt any tact whatso-fucking-ever.

“We can lure it to where we need with blood,” Lydia says, eyes scanning over a sheaf of papers detailing the weaknesses and favourite snacks of their monster of the week. “But it has to be fresh; a wound freshly made, not just blood drained from someone and used to lay a trail.”

“We can do that,” Derek says, with an answering nod from Scott and shrug from Isaac. “Not ideal, we’d probably have to cut ourselves again; its lair is too close to town and we’ll need to draw it far enough away that no one comes across the body once it’s dead.”

“Stiles is- you know,” Isaac supplies, like that’s a normal thing to just bring up, and doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed when Stiles glares at him. “I can smell it.”

“Little privacy here!” Stiles yelps, throws his hands in the air when Allison sniggers. “I’m done. I’m so done, don’t come crying to me next time someone gets you with some nasty little potion you’re allergic to.” Lydia rolls her eyes, carrying on as if he never spoke.

“And they’re also attracted to- oh. The scent of magic, or a spell cast on someone.” As one, they all carefully don’t look at Stiles - except Isaac, who makes full eye contact and smirks, the bastard. Stiles grits his teeth, and hopes his running skills are up to this.

“If anyone even _thinks_ ‘ready made bait’, I will stab them.”

\--------------------

Once, just once, Stiles dreams he’s back in his own body. He wakes up feeling more displaced than he’s ever felt, since he rolled over in the forest and realised he had boobs and a cunt. The tears are hot in his eyes and cold on his cheeks, and it’s only when Scott’s arms wrap tightly around him that Stiles realises he’s sobbing, deep and wrecked.

“I’m okay,” he says, eventually, thinks about the properties of aconite and valerian, wormwood and wolfsbane, until his hands stop shaking and he can press them to Scott’s chest.

(That’s a lie.)

Scott just holds him closer.

\--------------------

There’s a stranger with Derek at their next pack meeting. There’s been no reports of monsters that week, nothing nasty rearing its head that they need to deal with, so Stiles had been hoping for a chance to catch up on some schoolwork, maybe play some video games and make out with Scott. Which they’d been doing, until Derek’s knock at Stiles window sent him flailing off the bed and onto the floor.

Even Scott is pissed, which Stiles has to admit is hilarious.

But they go anyway, because for Derek to smell what they were doing and interrupt anyway, well. That’s commitment to a meeting, even Stiles will admit that.

The stranger is a man of about fifty, deeply tanned and with lines of care etched onto his face. He nods to them, one by one, grave and silent. Derek doesn’t offer a name, and neither does the stranger.

“But you don’t know who’s cursed?” Stiles demands in disbelief. The stranger shakes his head. “That makes it a fuckload harder, you guys know that right?”

“So we give up before we’ve even started?” Derek’s growl makes Stiles blink. They get along okay these days, but sometimes the old animosity is just beneath the surface. He grits his teeth.

“I didn’t say that-”

“Sounds like that’s exactly what you’re saying.”

“Then shut up, jerk, and let me finish!” Stiles snaps, all out of fucks to give right then, boob bandages itching and still on the last day of blood and cramps he never wants to deal with ever again. Scott’s hand is firm on Derek’s shoulder, but his eyebrows lift and he catches Stiles’ eye in a clear warning. “I’m not saying we don’t help, but how the fuck do we break a curse when we don’t even know who - or what - it’s been put on?”

“Stiles is right,” Allison says, soft but firm, breaking the tension. “We need more information.”

They have another brief discussion, the stranger brusque but obviously worried, and eventually they agree to do their best to break the curse his people are under.

All in a day’s work.

\--------------------

It takes a week to figure out a large-scale spell, and then get everything together, between school and work and every other commitment they’ve each collected along the way. Their houses fill with drying herbs that make Stiles sneeze, and then all they have to do is pack them up ready to take into the Roma camp.

“My dad’s gonna hate this,” Stiles complains, nudging a bag of herbs with his toe. The Jeep is the only thing big enough to take the amount of supplies they need, so what looks like half the foliage in Beacon Hills is covering his bedroom floor. Derek had brought the last lot over, along with a couple pairs of heavy work gloves and a look that said they were both too stupid to have thought about the likelihood of injury.

Stiles drags a pair on with bad grace. Scott ignores them, hands a constantly changing bloom of scratches that make Stiles’ mouth go dry.

“We’ll clean up,” Scott says, sat on the floor by his bed under another bunch, wrapping them with spelled string Lydia had dropped off earlier.

“I’m more worries about the _smell_ ,” Stiles fires back, because it’s permeating the whole house, a dry, woody scent that burns the back of his throat if he breathes in too deeply. Scott rolls his eyes.

“We’ve got Lydia’s cleansing candle,” he points out, and really, when did he get so reasonable. Stiles huffs, but drops down next to him and starts wrapping. After a minute Scott leans over enough to knock his shoulder against Stiles’, and he hides a grin.

“If we finish before midnight,” Scott says, picking up another bundle and tieing an expert knot, “we can make out.”

“That’s blackmail!” Stiles complains again, already feeling lighter, feeling the heat pool in his gut.

“Incentive,” Scott corrects, with a bright, guileless smile. Or it would be, if Stiles didn’t know him and know what a ruthless asshole he can be.

They finish at one am, but Scott doesn’t hold out long once Stiles discards the gloves and crawls into his lap, pressing kisses along his neck, his jawline, the curve of his lips.

**\--------------------**

“We built the fire in the wrong place,” Derek growls, and Stiles throws his hands up in the air.

“Next time, I’ll ask the wind not to change direction, shall I? I’ll just tell it to-” Scott’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, Lydia’s hands glowing blue beyond him when Stiles turns his glare towards Scott instead of Derek. “Right, right, save it for later.”

“Save it for _never_ ,” Scott says, flash of a grin taking any of the alpha-ness out of it. Not that Stiles minds, really, now he’s gotten used to the fact that it gives him a hard-on, or whatever he get these days, but- yeah, later. “Lighter?”

Stiles hands it over, steps back while Scott kneels down and lights the huge heap of branches they’d spent a good hour building. Lydia’s magic flashes before settling down into a steady glow, the conjured breeze whispering over Stiles’s skin.

The stack of herbs big enough to take up most of the Jeep gradually catches alight, creating a plume of smoke large enough to be seen for miles; Stiles spares a brief moment to hope no one calls in a forest fire alert before they’re finished. Derek and Scott stand take up positions next to the blaze while Lydia channels- some kind of magic, he thinks they’re trying Irish charms this week - to twist the wind and send the smoke into the Roma camp.

“Ready?” Scott asks, knife held loosely in one hand. Derek mirrors him, waiting. Stiles lifts his cell, checks in with Allison, stood on the other side of the ring of wagons.

“Allison?”

“ _Not yet_ ,” her voice comes back, “ _the smoke’s still too thin this side_.” They wait for the smoke to cover the whole camp, tense and quiet. Then Allison again, clear and sure; “ _okay, now_.”

Derek and Scott lift their knifes and make a sharp cut into their forearms, right over veins Scott had found and marked with Sharpie before they’d set things up. Blood slides down their arms in twin slick paths, and drips onto the fire. Instantly the smoke turns indigo, the smell stinging harsh and acrid in Stiles’ nose.

“That’s disgusting,” he says, and Scott snorts a laugh. “No offence, guys.”

“None taken,” Derek says dryly, wiping his knife on his jeans. “How long do we let this burn?”

“Until it’s done its job,” Lydia says. Stiles catches the barest shake of tiredness in her voice, and moves round the fire to stand next to her, careful to keep out of the worst of the smoke. “And before you ask, we’ll know when it has.”

For a few minutes, they stand listening; Stiles can only hear the rustle of the fire, the odd hiss and pop of another drop of blood hitting the flames, but he knows the werewolves can hear more. The sounds of the forest around them, maybe even traffic on the highway a few miles away. And the sound of the Roma families, sat in their wagons, wet cloths across their faces as protection, chanting their own charms to help with the magic they’re working to break the curse

Stiles’ attention drifts, skips from how his boob bandages are itching to checking his hoodie pocket to make sure he brought an energy bar for Lydia’s inevitable post-magic hunger, to how Scott’s got this thing for biting, and it’s _awesome_ , even just at the making-out stage. Scott half turns his head, mouth quirked up like he’s caught the thought, and Stiles ducks his head, grins a little, eyes watering from the smoke.

The scream that rips through the camp is a deep, sharp, soul-rending shock.

Everyone takes a step back, and Lydia’s breeze flares up into a gale before she gets it under control. The scream echoes again, raw and painful to hear; Stiles feels the urge to drop to his knees, barely stops himself. Scott and Derek have half turned, crouching down; Stiles grabs for his cell, line still open.

“Keep an eye on Isaac,” he tells Allison, hopes she’s okay through the smoke. They’ve never broken a curse this strong before, one that’s on a whole clan of people, and they only half know what to expect. Her voice comes back through clear and confident though, cutting through the echo of the scream.

“ _Got it_.”

The trees ring with the noise a third time, but now it builds into a crescendo, until Stiles can feel it in his very bones. Then it breaks, and the forest around them rings with sudden silence. Derek straightens first, shift under control, and after a moment Scott follows suit. Stiles grabs for Lydia as she topples forward, reaching into his pocket for the energy bar.

“Derek!” Stiles calls, points when he turns around. “Fire extinguisher.”

The whoosh of the fire going out joins with the sound of wagon doors opening, and footsteps as people cautiously come down the steps to look around. Stiles has no idea how long they’ll have to wait to find out if the curse is broken, horrific screaming aside, but they’ve tried.

“Well?” Allison asks, jogging up, an arrow still nocked on her bow, held loosely in her hands but still deadly. “Did it work?”

“Didn’t you hear it?” Derek says, eyebrows raised in what passes for stunned disbelief from him. She shakes her head.

“Hear what?” she asks, looking between them. Most of the Roma look confused as well, but several of the older ones nod.

“Only those with magic of their own can hear it,” a man says, one of the ones who had remembered scraps of stories heard at his grandmother’s knee, stories from their old homeland about curses and their breaking. “Or those touched by it,” he adds, with a glance at Stiles. Derek’s eyebrow goes up at the implication that the werewolves have magic, but he doesn’t say anything; Stiles makes a note to research that theory sometime.

“You didn’t want to hear it,” Lydia says, reaches out to take Allison’s hand. “Trust me.”

The man who asked Derek for help steps forward, and gestures to another woman of a similar age. “We thank you,” he says, and holds up a hand when Derek starts to reply. “In return, we would like to offer our own help, to you.”

“Help?”

“We were helpless against the curse, but we have our own magic; we can help change the shifted back, or so we think.”

Stiles’ stomach drops, Scott suddenly a warm support behind him. He reaches back, feels Scott’s hand wrap tightly around his. The older woman looks closely at Stiles. “It’ll hurt,” she says, voice rough from the smoke. “Can you bear that?”

Stiles lifts an eyebrow, doesn’t smirk because this is the closest they’ve come in three months of searching for a way to turn him back and he feels sick with the sudden hope, but can’t help wanting to laugh all the same. “I can,” he tells her, and she nods.

“Then I will try. Come.” She turns away towards her wagon, and he follows, no hesitation, Scott’s hand slipping from his at the last possible moment. Before the wagon door closes he sees them all - his pack - stood guard, clustered around the dying fire.

**\--------------------**

She’s right. It hurts like nothing else, like he’s been scraped raw from the inside and filled with fire, then hollowed out again and left empty.

When it passes, he’s bitten clean through his lip, and there’s nail marks in her table where he held on.

He can’t breathe for a moment, and then he can, lightheaded and incredulous. His toes cramp, pushed against the padding in his boots, and the bandages slip as he shifts, no boobs needing to be flattened down to keep them tight around his chest. Stiles shoves a hand down his jeans, and cups his dick, safely back where it should be. He laughs, almost hysterical with relief until he leans back against the wagon side and breathes deep.

“Was it so bad,” she asks, voice still husky and with an edge of scorn. Stiles tilts his head forward, looks at her for a long moment. He’s learnt some patience in the last few months, but his body is buzzing with the residue of the Roma magic and his answer has bite.

“Yes,” he tells her. “I’m not a woman, up here.” Stiles taps his head with a hand that trembles, nails square and familiar. “It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t my body.”

The older woman inclines her head, a flicker of smile on her mouth. “Fair,” she says, and sits back. “Don’t go near any goblins,” she adds, as Stiles bends down to take his boots off and pull out the padding. “They’ll suck the leftover magic out of you like lemonade through a straw.”

“Delicious.”

“Yes, until they suck your life out along with it.”

Stiles snorts, re-laces his boots and stuffs the socks he’d used as padding in his hoodie pocket. The bandages unwind completely with a sharp tug, and he wraps them around his hands for a minute, thinking. Then he shoves them in his pocket too, and follows the woman out of the wagon. At first he feels just like he did after the magic hit, months ago; weak and shaky, body fighting him.

He almost stumbles down the wagon steps, but Scott is there, catching his elbow and just as quickly releasing it so Stiles can get to the floor himself. “How- are you?” Scott looks at him, searching, concern all over his face. Stiles nods, smiling slightly.

“I’m back,” he says. Allison and Lydia hug him, Lydia’s a tight, almost bruising pressure he knows is her apology for not finding a reversal spell herself.

Isaac gives him a once-over. “Still not hot,” he says, which is pretty much the same reaction as the last time Stiles swapped genders. Stiles flips him off, but feels less shaky anyway; Isaac’s an ass, but he’s Stiles’- yeah, no, not that. Even Derek claps him on the shoulder, comforting in his usual borderline violent way.

They wrap things up with the Roma elders, ask for copies of their charms and spells, offer up their own knowledge in return. Stiles takes a long walk around the perimeter of the camp, and by the time he gets back he’s mostly settled back into his skin. Scott’s waiting for him at the edge of the circle of wagons, the rest nowhere to be seen.

“They thought you might want to get used to it again,” he says, with a nod of his head in the direction of where they left the cars. He doesn’t reach out, waits for Stiles to fall into step with him and knock their shoulders together, and like with everything else, Stiles loves him for it. It’s a tough walk back to the Jeep, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to ignore the shakes, tells himself it’s just the magic.

“If you see any pixies,” he tells Scott, when the Jeep comes into view, “kill me. I’m not risking doing this all over again.”

Scott just grabs his jacket and drags them towards the Jeep, towards home and hopefully clothes that don’t stink of herbs and burning werewolf blood.

**\--------------------**

“I thought I’d feel different,” Stiles confesses later, in the darkness of his room. Scott snuffles sleepily, turns over to look at him with half-closed eyes.

“You thought you’d be jumping for joy, and we’d immediately have hot, hot sex?” He says, deadpan, tired amusement layered underneath it.

Stiles thinks about it. “Yeah, kinda.”

“It was a-” Scott yawns, jaw cracking, and Stiles does the same before he can help it, light stubble itching against skin that’s forgotten what it feels like. “-big change, even though it was back to your real body. Bound to feel weird again.”

It’s a long time before Stiles falls asleep, hands ghosting over his body, relearning its contours from the outside, its harder planes and almost unfamiliar sinews.

**\--------------------**

It’s not all good news; yeah, his dick is back, and in fully working order, and all his clothes fit again, but he’s got to retrain his body again. He throws himself back into lacrosse now that he doesn’t have to explain why a chest shot hurts more than a shot between the legs, gets bloodied and bruised without worrying about lying to his dad - who is still shockingly cool with the magic and gender-bending.

And it takes a while for his sex drive to fire back up, without the accompanying feeling of _wrong wrong wrong_ whenever he thought about having sex while in possession of a cunt.

But eventually it does, and gradually making out becomes grinding and messy handjobs, Scott’s eyes flashing yellow when Stiles licks their hands clean afterwards.

They’re catching up on classwork, neglected in favour of bonfires and feral wolf-packs that Derek insisted on trying to take down single-handedly, but now they’re done, and Scott’s sat at his desk, obviously not doing anything else except watching Stiles chew his pen while he makes notes on possible sources to contact for information. Stiles catches Scott’s eye, and they both smile, sharp and turned on all in one go. He shudders a little at the relief of feeling his dick swell, instead of his cunt clench, and stands up, crosses Scott’s room to stand in front of him.

“We’re going to have so much sex,” Stiles says, straddles Scott’s lap and grins down at him. Scott’s hands come up to frame his hips - manly hips! - and rest there, easy and comfortable.

“I have to be at the clinic in half an hour,” Scott warns with a grin of his own, but his thumbs have slipped underneath Stiles’ shirt and he’s rubbing hot circles into the skin over his hipbones. Stiles feels his grin turn sharp.

“So we have some time. Not enough,” he says conversationally, sliding off Scott’s lap and away from the heat of his hands, sliding to his knees. “But some.” Even this felt wrong, before; he thought about it a lot, tried to go for it once, but it wasn’t the same. Different hands would’ve undone Scott’s fly, a different jawline would’ve rubbed nonexistent stubble over his sensitive stomach, and it wouldn’t have been his mouth that wrapped around Scott’s dick.

Now though, _now_ it’s perfect. Scott’s back arches, and yeah, it’s been a while for both of them, jerking off is fine but this is so much better.

Stiles settles in, lips stretched wide and breathing deep, feeling his own dick pressed stiff against his briefs until he can almost feel rough denim when he shifts, he’s that turned on and hard. For a split second he misses the softer arousal of slick heat and a clench inside him, but- no. This is him. He swallows, feels Scott tremble with the effort of not fucking his throat, wants it even more once he’s thought about it.

He bobs his head, sucks tight then gentle, gives Scott a hint of teeth because he’s a werewolf and it’ll get him hotter; Stiles grunts when Scott’s hips fuck his cock down Stiles’ throat just a little, presses his nails into Scott’s wrist and does it again when Scott whimpers. They’ve got time for slow, later, and Stiles is all for doing as much as possible in as little time as they’ve got.

More teeth, his nails scraping down Scott’s arm, and he’s swallowing, surrounded by the scent of come and hot skin, of _Scott_.

He pulls off and catches some on his cheek, licks his hips, tilts his head back with a smug smirk because he’s done that a few times, sure, but he’s a fast learner and he’s making up for lost time here. Scott bends in half, kisses him fiercely and sends them both toppling onto the floor, Stiles flat on his back and glorying in the feeling of two flat - and muscular, his pecs are better than the boobs any day - chests pressed hard against each other.

Scott’s hand is down his pants before he can wipe his cheek off, hand strong and sure, a grin pressed up against Stiles’ cheek as he gasps his way into an orgasm. He’ll swear he saw sparks, later, Scott pressed against his back and laughing, but Stiles will wonder if there’s a little of the magic still hanging around.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, when he can catch his breath. “So much sex.”

Scott snorts a laugh. “Next time, we’re doing it when I don’t have work in- shit, I gotta go.”

\--------------------

When they do have sex, it’s mind-blowingly, stratospherically, absolutely fucking _incredible_.

Scott tells him not to exaggerate, but stops laughing long enough to rip through the pillow that Stiles tries to smother him with, and they go for it again, Stiles on top this time, begging for the bruises Scott barely holds himself back from leaving on his skin.

“They’ll be _mine_ , on _my_ body,” Stiles demands, leans down and bites a kiss onto Scott’s lips, feels the slick of blood before Scott twists his hips and he has to rear back, a harsh cry ripped from him with how good it is.

\--------------------

“Right,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together at their next pack meeting in what he will only describe as unholy glee. “I’m well-rested, well-laid, and back in my own body. What’re we killing this week?”

Derek’s groan of pure disgust is almost, _almost_ , worth the shittiness of the whole deal.

Scott’s blinding grin definitely is.

 

♥

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, yet another fandom I’m _not even in_. I think I’m exorcising my brain and my laptop of all the random stories I’ve started, help, who knows what's next. 
> 
> So, that said, a couple notes. Firstly, I’m a cis-woman; I’ve tried to write this as authentically as possible, but obviously I don’t have firsthand experience. If there’s any thing that needs amending, or anything I need to tag for, please let me know and I’ll correct it. 
> 
> Secondly, this is mostly a way of making up for the truly, truly awful genderswap fic that was maybe the…third thing I ever wrote for bandom, back when I was a baby writer stealing my parents computer at 3am to read fic and fangirl in embarrassing ways. Sorry, fifteen year-old me; you were shitty, but you get better.
> 
> Thirdly, one scene of this is inspired by an FOB story I read around that same time that's been stuck in the back of my mind ever since, and that _I can’t remember the title of_. If anyone recognises the influence, for god’s sake let me know. Demons to lay over here.


End file.
